


A House Is Not A Home

by magicgirlsara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, season 13 speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:24:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11349813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicgirlsara/pseuds/magicgirlsara
Summary: Dean's grief after Castiel's death has turned into a labor of love. (A little based on The Notebook, a little just cause of that gif going around of Jensen hammering stuff with a post-season beard.)





	A House Is Not A Home

**Thursday, August 31st**

 

He set his beer down next to him on the stoop as a soft breeze blew by. He could feel it through his thick beard, feel it tousling his hair. Instinctively, he looked at where he buried Cas.

 

_ Cas? _

 

The wind died down and he knew he wasn’t there; he knew he was alone at the old house.

 

_ Cas, buddy, if you can hear me, please…please come back? _

 

He was used to this, pleading in his mind, pleading out loud, pleading with others. Fresh tears stained his face as they poured from his eyes. He wiped them away by cupping his face and taking a labored breath into his hand.

 

“Castiel,” he let himself say his name aloud. A ragged breath took the last syllable from his mouth.

 

It’s been 105 days since he had to bury Cas. 15 long and hopeless weeks since he laid him in the soft upturned dirt. 105 tortuous days since he sobbed weakly, barely able to throw the dirt over his lifeless body. Sam had to step in, take over the job. He easily pulled Dean away from the edge of the hole, holding back his own tears so his brother wouldn’t see. He had to be strong for the both of them this time. It was usually Dean that was the tough one, but he needed Sam now. Quietly, with a focused attention, he shoveled dirt onto Cas’ body. He never once looked down at him.

 

“Castiel, please,” he took a deep breath, “just… ANSWER ME!”

 

His outburst echoed across the river. Again, there was no answer.

 

He aggressively rose to his feet, tipping over his beer as he got up. It poured out where he was sitting, hissing angrily. He snatched it and threw it at the house. It shattered into a million pieces, leaving a wet splat where it hit. He groaned at himself when he realized what he did and grabbed the hose to rinse it off. 

 

After he picked up the bigger glass pieces and walked them over to the trash cans, he stood back to see the house. He had done a lot of work in these weeks that Cas had been gone. The house had been sanded and repainted, he replaced the roof, and now he was working on the porch. At first it started as cleaning, just busy work while he was waiting for Cas to come back. He wanted to be there when he came back; couldn’t stand the thought of Cas waking up alone, covered in dirt, unsure of what had happened or where to go. He remembered what it was like to panic when you realized you were trapped underground, the way you had to fight through the dirt, the deep breath your burning lungs desperately needed once you surfaced, and most of all the way you felt alone and scared when you didn’t know where you were or what happened to you. He couldn’t leave Cas that way. But when Cas didn’t come back right away, he started little projects around the house, fixing the outlet in the kitchen, he needed that for the coffee pot he bought. Then it was the wobble on the kitchen table, it was grating his nerves every time he sat down. Eventually, he took a long, hard look at the outside of the house after coming back from a beer run and decided that it needed to be spruced up a bit. Everyday he made some progress on the little house. 

 

The former owner came out about 2 weeks ago to see the work he’d done. When he asked Dean why he was doing it, without looking at the man he said, “It’s calling to me. If I fix it, maybe I’ll get what I need for once.” The man never came back but Dean heard the murmurs when he went into town for supplies. He knew that the whole town knew he was on some sort of love pilgrimage. For once, that didn’t stop him, though. He labored on through the days and nights, hoping that Cas would come back to him. Once he finished one project, he moved on to the next without hesitation. If he stopped, that would mean he was done, and if he was done and Cas wasn’t back yet, well... that wasn’t an option.

 

He couldn’t allow himself a minute to be proud of his work, though. He quickly walked back over to the porch and started on replacing the damaged wood. His calloused hands worked each plank into place and each hit of the hammer held a therapeutic resonance. When night fell he reluctantly made his way inside, poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat at the kitchen table. His pocket started to buzz and when he pulled his phone out there were 5 missed calls from Sammy. He swiped them off the screen, he didn’t feel like answering questions today.

 

The back door opened and Sam stormed in, “What the hell, man? I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”

 

Dean, who had a gun pointed at Sam before he got a word in, slowly lowered it and set in on the table. He kicked out the chair opposite him at the table.

 

“You wanna talk? Go ahead, sit,” he gestured at the chair.

 

Choosing not to sit, he looked at Dean, mouth agape, “What the fuck are you doing, Dean? I mean, really, what is the goal here? Drink yourself to death while doing manual labor?”

 

Dean shrugged as a smug smile played at his lips, “This is pretty much it. It’s all I’ve got, Sammy.”

 

“You should come home,” Sam looked at the table, unsure of what his brother’s reaction would be.

 

“Yeah, no, not gonna happen.”

 

“Why? What are you even doing here?” Sam took the seat opposite Dean.

 

“I don’t know, Sam. I’m… waiting.”

 

“Waiting for what? Dean--”

 

“Sam!” Dean cut him off, “Don’t. Cas is comin’ back and when he gets here I’m gonna be here.”

 

Sam sighed, still refusing to make eye contact with him.

 

“I won’t let him wake up alone, Sam. I won’t do that to him.”

 

“I know,” Sam finally looked up into his brother’s eyes, “I’ll go back to the bunker, get Jack, we’ll stay here. Help with the house. Wait… together, ok?”

 

Dean grunted and handed Sam a beer across the table. 

 

As Sam reached for it he knew this was an invite to stay, but he didn’t know what for, or if, or when they would ever find out. How long would they have to wait? What if he never came back? How was he going to help Dean through this? 

 

The questions running through Sam’s mind seemed endless. He didn’t know where to start, and enabling Dean’s depressive episode probably wouldn’t help. But, truthfully, he didn’t know what else to do. 

 

“I’ll bring some stuff I’ve been looking into about Cas,” was all he could think of to say.

 

Dean’s dead eyes looked at the ground, “Thanks.”


End file.
